Homeward now I turned, chilled to the core, prepared for anything. Over a fence I climbed and took a shorter way across the pastureland. Darkness had fallen and I heard old Stephen calling the sheep, to be housed for the night, safe from the ravages of prowling dogs. I came upon the little creek, weaker than far below at the old mill, but chanting the same hollow dirge. I stood upon the rock where Mr. Clem had found me with his shrewd temptation; and a little further on I came to the deep hole wherein Bob and I had sworn to drown ourselves. Here I stopped and bathed my face and hands, lingering, dreading to meet Old Master's grief-chilled eye. Fire-light came from some of the cabins, feeling its way and trembling through the darkness; but for the most part the negro quarter appeared deserted. The door of the "big house" stood open and the hall lamp was burning. With dragging feet I climbed the steps and raised the brass knocker, the familiar old dragon's head, but did not let it fall; so much was I in dread of its startling alarm. I stepped back to go round to the rear veranda, when Old Miss came out of the library. She saw me and her cry pierced my heart. Oh, how wretched she looked and how feeble! And how weak was that cry, a mere whisper; but it rang in my ears night and day for many a month. I believe she would have fallen, I thought she was falling and I put out my hands and caught her, eased her upon the hall settee and fanned her with my hat. "Go," she said, motioning me away, "go to your Old Master. He is dying in his room up stairs. Wait, let me send him word. He was afraid you wouldn't get here. May, May!" she called, "go and tell him Dan has come." Miss May, pale and tear-stricken, had stepped out of the parlor. She grasped my hand and then hastened up the stairs. "Elliot brought the news," said Old Miss, leaning back against the wall. "And May went over--over to tell 'her.' Infamous creature, she was making preparations for her wedding. Oh, this world, this world! Oh, my son, if I could only call him back!" She looked at me with her head turned to listen for Miss May's footsteps. "I have been the most miserable woman in the world, and a thousand times I have prayed for death." Her eyes grew brighter. She straightened up with pride. "But he died like a hero. Tell me about him." I told her how he had fallen; and when I mentioned the letters that were put into the grave with him, she cleared her throat with the old dry rasp. "How long has Master been sick?" I asked, wishing to change the subject. "A long time, but the doctors did not give him up until the day before yesterday. They might have known at first that there was no hope for him. Why should there be any hope for him or for anyone? Why can't we all get out of this miserable world and be done with it?" "Have many of the negroes gone away?" I asked.